


Running From My Heart

by ready_to_kick_some_ass



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Bullying, Canon Divergence, Child Abuse, Everyone Is Alive, Fluff, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Injury Recovery, Love Confessions, M/M, Oral Sex, Past Child Abuse, Physical Abuse, Recovery, References to Depression, Smut, Threesome, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 14:34:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20098771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ready_to_kick_some_ass/pseuds/ready_to_kick_some_ass
Summary: Five times Eliot runs away and one time he doesn't.





	Running From My Heart

_ 1\. Yellow and Red _

  
Once upon a time there was a boy named Eliot, living on a farm in Whiteland, Indiana and he felt out of place. He dreamt of a bigger world behind the dust brown fields that sprawled out to all sides, like an ocean. Crossing it, sailing towards other bigger places, was the boy’s first great adventure. And it happened because of pain. A lot of pain.

  
Days begin before the first beams of sunlight hit the fields, bathing the corn in golden light. Life is routine. Everything always stays the same. There is school, there are the chores, there is volatile free time. And there is God. God is omnipresent. They pray to God for good weather, for plentiful harvest and for healthiness. They thank God for their crops, for their clothes and for their food.

Eliot once points out, that it wasn’t God who harvested the goods that are served at dinner. Later, when his cheek is burning from the slap he received from his father, he curses his loose mouth. There is nothing more important to Aaron Waugh, than God and alcohol. Alcohol and God.

Aaron’s God is fierce, and his punishments are hard. Eliot grows up fearing this God. The church they use to go to every Sunday morning is small. Old stone, covered in wild growing ivy, high arches window, and stained glass. The priest is old and he talks in a sonorous monotonous voice, that almost every time makes Eliot feel sleepy. He almost dozes off, day-dreaming about finding a magical door to escape this place, perking up, whenever his father yells “Amen!” beside him, with a fanatic gleam in his eyes

God is everywhere and he doesn’t like disobedience. Aaron firmly believes in early apocalypse. He tells his four sons that soon, God will send another flood to punish his disobedient sinful creation, and Eliot lays awake many nights, trembling in fear when he imagines water coming from everywhere, shattering the windows and pulling him away, into death. He imagines drowning to be the most horrible death. He feels like suffocating under his blanket, when he stifles his tears so his father won’t hear him cry. Aaron doesn’t like crying. Real men don’t cry, they are strong and always in control of their emotions.

When Eliot isn’t doing his chores or isn’t praying, he goes to school. Which is another source for many nightmares.

The walk to school is long. It leads along a chain-link fence, behind which cows are grazing, lazily chewing while watching the lanky boy walking by impassively. It’s the perfect length of a walk to mentally prepare himself for what’s to come. His math teacher, who treats him like an idiot because Eliot isn’t good at mental math. He just can’t handle the numbers. His classmates, who giggle when he’s taunted. And, of course, Logan Kinley. Eliot shivers when the name echoes in his mind.

Logan Kinley is one of these boys who draw their whole self-consciousness out of the glorious sensation of being superior to other kids. He is big and sluggish, his cheeks always slightly pink and his eyes looking dull, he’s neither good in sports nor in playing an instrument and he doesn’t write good marks. But he’s smart enough to know the basics of social rules in school. If he doesn’t want to be the outsider that is kicked into the mud, he has to find some smaller, weaker and overall shyer kid to demonstrate he’s not one to laugh at but someone to fear.

At the beginning of the new school year, Logan threw one glance at Eliot, and seemed to decide he’s the perfect victim.

It started with insults and ended in regular beatings.

Everything about Eliot, from his quite worn out clothes to his messy curls in which sometimes some hay is sticking, is a target for Logan. And his followers watch eagerly, how he picks Eliot apart every day.

Eliot is so desperate; he even tries to pray once. He begs God to make it stop and promises he will be good, not disobeying his father or disappointing his mother. But the bullying doesn’t stop. And no one cares. They all look away.

The only one, who seems to care is a boy named Taylor. He sits beside Eliot in break, asking him if he wants some of his sweets. His smile is warm and honest. His eyes sparkle and Eliot feels drawn to him in a way he didn’t know before.

“Are you in love with that fag?” Logan taunts him once, pushing Eliot against the wall. “Would you like to suck his cock? Bet you would like it. Fucking faggot.” He spits on the ground then, looking at Eliot with a disgusted ugly happy smirk on his broad face.

Eliot knows what the words mean, and he knows he can’t be a “fag”, because his father told him God despises them and they go to the worst place in hell. His father also said that there is no “fucking faggot” in his family. He wouldn’t raise "cocksuckers". 

So no, he can’t be that. But his stomach feels strange, when he’s with Taylor. As if his insides were touched by the wings of a dozen butterflies. And once, he catches himself imagining how it would feel like to hold Taylor’s hand. Would it be that weird to do it? So many people are holding hands around him, how can it be something wrong? But he doesn't dare to try it and sticks his hands into his trouser pockets instead.

* * *

Eliot has just turned 14 when it happens.

It’s quick and ugly and will haunt him forever.

It’s one of these moments that seem to happen in slow motion.

He comes out of school, eating a cereal bar that’s so sweet, his teeth feel sticky. He discovers Logan on the other side of the street, and his stomach drops. He tries to make himself small behind a car. But Logan sees him ducking, an ugly grin spreading on his face.

He starts to cross the street, rolling his shoulders.

Eliot wishes he could make himself disappear. He’s tired. So so tired. He wishes Logan wouldn’t exist.

A school bus approaches from the side – yellow. It is so yellow. Eliot remembers later how it was blinding him like the sun … -

Logan walks faster, the grin on his face broadening in anticipation.

And suddenly, beside his fear and sadness and overall tiredness, Eliot feels a sharp surprising pang of rage. He glares at Logan and raises his chin in an attempt to look bigger.

And it happens.

Something invisible hits Logan. He stumbles. His predatory grin starts to disappear, replaced by an open-mouthed expression of confused surprise. He loses the ground under his feet and flies through the air. It looks like the wind decided to grab him, decided to throw him – against the bus.

There’s a thud. Cracking sounds. A scream.

The yellow of the bus is sprinkled with red spots. Blood. Logan's blood.

Eliot drops the cereal bar and stands frozen in place, staring as several men run towards the lifeless body splayed out on the asphalt, as the bus driver stumbles out, bends over and vomits on the street. The children inside the bus press their noses against the windowpanes, mouthing questions.

A woman beside him is crying, her hands pressed on her mouth. “How … how did this happen?”

It’s then that Eliot notices his nose is bleeding. He raises his hand and catches a drop, staring at the red fluid in stunned fascination. He looks back to the scene in front of him. People are sitting around Logan’s shattered body, shaking their hands. The police arrives. Eliot stares and thinks:

_I did this. _

The thought is absurd. It’s delusional. But it stays. It’s persistent. And something inside him knows he’s right.

_I did this._

Eliot distantly remembers how a glass once fell of the table when he was angry. No one touched that glass. It just tipped over and shattered on the floor. This is scary.

He shakes every thought off, still staring at the scene in front of him, when Taylor approaches him, a concerned expression on his face, asking questions.

Eliot buries what happened deep in a corner of his mind.

But now and then, a nightmare remembers him.

He tries to run from it, but the images follow him, burned into his mind. 

_Yellow and Red. _

_ 2\. “I can’t go back.”  _

Eliot’s sick of the farm life. He’s sick of his father and God and his mother who never says a word. He's sick of everything.

By now, he knows he likes boys and he wants to see the world and wants to move away from an environment that won’t ever accept him like he is. In which he always would have to play a role. Theatre without a proper audience.

He smokes cigarettes, hidden behind hay bales – his father would kill him if he’d knew -, only watched by the farm cats. There are eleven of them. No one aside him can memorize their names. His favourite is Bowie. Eliot saved him from being drowned like five months ago. He ripped the sack in which the kitten was screaming and struggling out of the neighbour farmer’s hand, Bowie’s siblings didn’t have that much luck.

Bowie has only one golden eye. It's glowing, a sharp contrast to his carbon black face. He watches Eliot with it attentively, lazily licking his paw clean. He looks comfy. Satisfied. And sure, for the cats, life on the farm is ideal. They catch fat mice and lay on the hay bales, sunbathing for hours. They belong here. Eliot feels like he doesn’t.

It’s like he’s living that song by Radiohead. Creep.

_“And I’m a freak. I’m a weirdo. What he hell am I doing here? I don’t belong here.”_

He once dares to talk about the city and the college at lunch, barely more than a careful mention.

Aaron Waugh barks a laugh and wipes some gravy from his chin. “That’s not for people like us. We’re workers. Always been workers.” Like always, his amusement quickly changes into sly aggressiveness. “Tell me, Eliot. Do you think you’re better than us?” He asks slowly, eyes narrowing. Eliot’s mother stops eating, looking at Aaron concerned, alarm in her eyes.

Eliot looks down at his plate, moving the beans around with his fork. “No father.”

“Good,” Aaron says slowly, leaning back in his chair. “When I’m old, you and your brothers are responsible for this farm. It’s been in our family for generations. And I’m not allowing you to mess this up. Know your place. God gave this to us. He could always take it away, and we would be left with nothing. Nothing!” He slaps on the table once, hard, and everyone flinches. Aaron glares at Eliot, raising one finger. “And finally find a girl, boy. It’s long due. Your brothers all have one already. Don’t be picky, you hear me? As long as she can do the household, it’s fine.”

Eliot lowers his head to hide the irritated frown on his face. Get a girl. His father has been telling him that for months now. The thing is, there hasn’t ever been a girl Eliot feels something for. There have been nice one, like Cathleen, a girl in his class who helped him out in maths once, when he fell asleep because he had to work on the field the whole Sunday and was too exhausted to follow the teacher’s monotonous rambling. She let him copy her answers and it was the nicest thing someone had done for him in a while. But he wouldn’t want to kiss her.

He wants to kiss someone else.

His name is Peter.

He has silver eyes like the stream beside the farm and hair like fresh cut hay. They meet for the first time in late July, when it’s time to harvest the cherries that will be sold on the market in the village. He catches Eliot’s occasional gazes and his lips twitch. Eliot’s heart flutters.

They meet at night, in an empty barn, kissing each other with the desperate abandon of young men not yet sure about what love is or what it feels like. Peter’s lips taste of cherries and corn. He’s the first one who touches Eliot and he’s the first one, who moans into his mouth when they rut against each other feverishly, skin sliding against skin smoothly.

It’s an entirely new kind of high. And Eliot drinks it greedily.

They lay in the hay after, surrounded by cats searching for mice, talking with each other quietly for hours. It could have been the perfect summer romance.

But then Eliot’s father catches them kissing each other goodbye behind a hay barn and everything explodes into yelling and pain, as Aaron punches Eliot right in the face and pushes Peter, who tells him stop away so hard, the other boy hits his head on a stone. There’s blood and Eliot barely sees Peter stumbling away, as his whole face throbs in pain and his eye is already swelling shut.

Aaron grabs him and shakes him, yelling incoherent words. His breath reeks of booze. His father’s drinking got worse lately and it makes him unpredictable. He could punch the living daylight out of Eliot now. Or kill him.

Eliot’s dragged into the house by his collar, up the stairs, bumping against them with his knees, groaning in pain and desperately gasping for breath. Aaron throws him on the bed, reaching for his belt, still yelling, his eyes full of blind rage. “I’m going to beat that bullshit out of you, you hear me? I didn’t raise a fucking fag, not me!”

When Eliot tries to get away, a fist hits him right above the eye that’s already swollen. The world explodes into blinding white light and he screams, pressing both hands against his face. He barely feels the first few hits on his back and shoulders, because he’s already numb with pain. But when he does, the pain is so strong, he feels sick and the world is swaying around him. He bites his tongue and feels blood. Tears blind his vision and … He can’t think straight anymore. The world is pain and yelling.

He’s barely conscious anymore when the door is ripped open and his older brother Thomas rushes in, grabbing his father’s arm and pulling him away from Eliot.

“Are you out of your mind?!” Thomas yells, yanking the belt out of their father’s hand. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like? I’m beating some sense into that piece of worthless shit!” Aaron yells, swaying on the spot, his eyes wild. “Fucking fag!”

“Well it’s enough now! Look at him. Did the alcohol make you blind? You can’t beat your own son like this!”

Eliot just now notices, that his shirt is destroyed, ripped into pieces. His back is burning and he knows he’s bleeding, feeling the sticky fluid on his skin. He sobs into the pillow, while Thomas still holds Aaron back, whose voice is hoarse from the yelling. But he still won’t stop.

“You’re not going to talk to me like this! I’m going to teach y’all respect! And I won’t allow a fucking faggot to live in my house!” Aaron yells, spitting on the floor. He points at Eliot with a shaking hand, his face distorted in rage and disgust and something that might be fear, his eyes shooting daggers. “That’s _not_ my son. I didn’t raise a fag! I didn’t!” He spits on the floor again and looks up to the ceiling, his hands clenching into fists. His grey hair is dishevelled, his eyes are wild. He looks like a maniac. “God, why do you punish me like this?" He howls. "What have I done? I’ve always been praying, I’ve always …”

Of course. Of course his father would think of this as a punishment of God, Eliot thinks bitterly. Well it isn’t. Eliot wants to tell him he’s always been this. This is who he is, who he has always been, but what does it matter … He’s hurting and he’s tired. He just wants to disappear into the void …

“That’s enough now, father,” Thomas says, shoving Aaron out of the room.

Eliot presses his face into the pillow. His whole body is screaming in pain. He doesn’t want to exist anymore. Not when it hurts like this …

Thomas comes back eventually, sitting at the edge of the bed. “I’m getting you to the hospital. Come on,” he says, sounding strained.

* * *

Some of the cuts need stitching.

The doctor who's doing it doesn’t ask a single question.

When they’re out of the hospital, Eliot looks at Thomas and shakes his head. “I can’t go back.”

Thomas bites his lip. But he nods. “I know. Eliot … I … Listen. I know I’m not a perfect brother. Never have been one. I could have done much more to protect you. But … I want you to know that I love you. You’re my little brother. I couldn’t hate you. Please remember this. Here …” He hands Eliot an envelope. When Eliot looks inside, he sees a lot of money. He looks up at his older brother, frowning. “Thomas … That are your savings. Are you sure?”

Thomas nods. When he talks, he sounds guilty and a bit like he’s begging Eliot to take the money. Eliot can’t decide if he feels pity or anger. “It’s all I have. I don’t need it. I will stay on this farm until I’m old. Because, well, it’s my life. But not yours. I’ve always known you would leave someday. I … I just didn’t imagine it would happen like this.” He scratches the back of his hand, clearing his throat. “So … You like guys?”

“I do.”

Thomas grimaces and rubs the back of his head. And Eliot immediately knows, he won’t find any real acceptance here either. “Well. I … You know we were raise to believe God’s word. And …”

“You know, I think humans create Gods. Not the other way around,” Eliot says dryly.

Thomas looks even more uncomfortable now. He stares at his folded hands and Eliot can’t even be really mad at him. Thomas doesn’t know any better. He believes what he was told his whole life and he didn’t need to think further, because life is alright for him. It works. But it doesn’t work for Eliot.

“Goodbye, Thomas,” he says and leaves for the next bus station.

He doesn’t look back.

_3\. _ _ The armour _

The city is overwhelming.

Eliot feels free but it’s a strange kind of freedom. No one knows him. He can be whatever he wants to be. The first thing he does, is to build himself an invisible armour. He’s not going to be a victim. Never again. So he creates a new persona and it’s strong, slightly arrogant, untouchable. It's a role he's playing, like he was playing the role of the obedient son. A mask he's wearing with success.

Eliot applies for college but he also gets drunk and he gets high. He finds out which kind of drugs numb his mind the best and which alcohol makes him forget the most. Thomas’ money gets him through many weeks and he finds a job in a bar, earning just enough money to pay the rent for a very small flat and for what he needs to function. 

He fucks around. There’s no other word for it. There’s always some guy who stares at him in drunken barely lucid awe. Guys who are transfixed when he smiles and are easy to convince to pay for drinks, to follow him to the toilets or to his small apartment.

Sometimes, things move around him. A glass falls off the table, a bottle tips over. It starts to happen more often. But there’s always a way to explain it. Most of the people he takes into his apartment are as drunk or high as he is, so no one gets suspicious.

But then there comes David. David isn’t satisfied with just one hazy one-night stand. He stays in the morning, the first one to stay and use the shower ever and makes them scrambled eggs. Eliot is stunned, watching David, as he cooks, humming some horrible melody and manoeuvring around the mess in the tiny kitchen unit.

David kisses him like it means something. 

“I really like you,” David tells him once, reaching for his hand. “Let’s be together.”

Eliot’s throat tightens in fear, but he says ok, because David looks at him so hopeful and in love, how can he say no?

A few weeks later, when his landlord has enough of the other renter’s complains about noises and smells, he tells Eliot to leave.

So Eliot moves into David’s flat.

David is happy. He cooks for Eliot, calls him darling and baby and Eliot is terrified. He’s terrified of losing his armour of control and distance he has been working on so hard for months now. He’s terrified of being vulnerable, exposed and in danger of losing everything good in the matter of a heartbeat.

He can’t stay here.

And he can’t tell David. What is he supposed to say? Sorry, you’re too kind to me so I have to fuck off because I can’t deal with it? Fuck no. David doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve Eliot. He deserves someone who’s just as nice as himself, who isn’t dealing with all kinds of issues.

So he packs his things as quiet as possible and leaves in the early morning hours.

He feels somehow dirty. 

When he stumbles across a street, the map he's looking at is knocked out of his hand by a sudden breeze. It floats away, right into a dark alley. Eliot curses and runs after it, trying to catch it. That’s how he arrives at Brakebills. There was a dark alley and suddenly there are bushes, a meadow, a great building bathed in sunlight. He stares at it confused, the map long forgotten.

What the fuck.

Only a few hours later he knows magic is real and he is telekinetic. It doesn’t surprise Eliot as much as it probably should. Instead, he feels some kind of strange relief mixed with fear and horror, as he remembers the moment, he used his power. _Yellow, sprinkled with blood … Screams and tears, a police woman asking him if he’s alright. The taste of blood on his lips because his nose started bleeding, and it won’t stop. It won’t … _Eliot makes a glass floating through the air that day, it’s driven by his emotions and the crowd cheers, as if it’s something marvellous, something great. The glass shatters on the floor a moment later.

When a man named Henry Fogg tell him he can stay and become a magician, Eliot doesn’t even hesitate to apply. He has nowhere to go. No one is going to miss him. Well. No one besides David maybe. David, who woke up alone. No. He has nowhere to go. So he stays at Brakebills, still not completely sure this isn’t just a dream. He moves into the cottage and makes himself a name. Parties, sex, drugs and alcohol. It’s freeing to get yet another chance to be an unwritten page for everyone. He can play his role and they would never know if that's the real him. They look at him in awe and think he’s someone strong, someone you don’t fuck with, someone who has his shit together. And that’s all he wants.

He soon understands that magic has nothing to do with talent. It comes from pain. He has a lot of it. He shares a fair amount of it with his partner for the trials. Her name is Margo and she tells him she’s not interested in anything horrible he might tell her so he can just get over with it. He looks at his bound hands and sighs, shivering in the chill air of the early night. He’s naked. Not only physically. He feels like he’s stripped from his armour. He tells Margo everything about his miserable past and gets some of her own stories about her father in return. She says they can be shitty-fathers-buddies, and he laughs. He likes her. When he tells her that he hates himself because of what he did to Logan and Taylor, he feels the ropes falling off his hands.

Eliot and Margo are friends after the trials. Best friends. She is one of the first good things happening in his life, he thinks. She took a look inside his soul and decided to like him anyway. They grow so close over the days and weeks, it almost feels like they are two sides of a coin.

Eliot doesn’t use his telekinetic powers often. He also doesn’t go to classes often. He tells himself it’s because he wants to do what he wants, he doesn’t like boundaries, not anymore. But a part of him knows it’s because he’s scared. He’s scared of his own powers because all they did is destruction. They destroyed a life. He has yet to see something marvellous about them …

Sometimes, he dreams of David and asks himself if he could have had a life filled with love there, but then he remembers that nothing good ever stays and he tells himself he did the right thing. He protected David and he protected himself. He didn’t just run away.

No. He didn’t.

_ 4\. The night that didn’t happen.  _

  
Quentin Coldwater.

Just when Eliot thinks he mastered the arts of self-control, Quentin Coldwater stumbles into his life and messes it up.

It starts like a bad love story written for a bored tv audience.

One day, he’s responsible for a first year. One of these small confused people who know deep down, that there’s something unusual about them but they can’t quite catch it. He’s been one of them, he knows how it feels.

Eliot squints at the note in his hand and frowns. “Quentin Coldwater?” The name sounds ridiculous on his tongue, but it also has a melodic note somehow.

The someone nods, his eyes wide as he's staring up at Eliot. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights. A cute deer. 

He stumbles after Eliot, asking if this is an hallucination.

God.

Eliot hopes he’s going to make it. He really hopes so. Because this first year is interesting. Definitely more interesting than the rest of them.

Quentin’s cute. Quentin’s nice and gentle. He smells of sweet uncertainty.

He’s different from the rest, not interested in parties and alcohol, rather sitting somewhere, reading his fantasy books.

But Quentin also walks around, like there’s a shadow sitting on his shoulders, pressing him down. He soon gets that Quentin is fighting demons every day and night, while wearing his own mask to keep people at distance and hiding his face behind his long hair. He tries his very best to be invisible. He reads a book while the others party around him, his eyes sticking to the letters.

Eliot has his head in Margo’s lap as he watches Quentin. Margo watches Eliot watching Quentin. “You want him,” she says, her fingers carding through his curls. Eliot hums, stretching his legs, looking up at Margo’s cat-like grin and smiles. “Maybe.”

Maybe.

He vaguely notices that he’s on the best way to develop a crush and his inner alarm is blaring. But Quentin is making heart eyes at Alice anyway. Eliot knows, everyone knows, that they have sex. Quentin doesn’t seem like the poly-positive type. Neither does Alice. So Eliot tries to shove his defiant emotions away. Meeting Mike helps with that. A lot. They kiss and fuck and it works great.

For a while.

Then, it all crushes the fuck down.

  
His life is a fucking tragedy.

He killed someone. Again.

The moment he killed Mike plays in front of Eliot’s eyes, a never-ending loop of pictures and sounds. Mike’s eyes haunt him in his dreams and his heart seems to be torn apart by the guilt. It’s too much and he can’t handle it. He needs to feel nothing. He needs to be numb.

So he goes back to the alcohol and the drugs. He’s still an expert. He knows what and how much to take. And he takes just a bit too much for still being lucid. Being lucid is the worst thing right now. He can’t deal with it.

Eliot’s aware he’s spiralling downwards. But he doesn’t find the energy to care. Neither do the people around him, apparently. At least no one is asking him if he’s doing fine, or if he wants to talk about it. Apparently, his armour is working well enough. Only Margo snaps at him once, telling him to get himself the fuck together and there’s something like fear in her eyes, but it’s volatile and Eliot chooses to ignore it.

When Quentin and he are drinking wine in front of the fireplace, and the laughs come easy, Quentin looking at him with a strange expression in his eyes, Eliot feels a desperate longing to kiss him. But before he can do anything, he falls off the chair, giggling. He’s so drunk …

He’s barely aware that Margo and Quentin bring him to his room, supporting most of his weight and throwing him on the bed.

He falls asleep quickly, exhausted and sad despite his drunken giddiness.

When he wakes up, Margo and Quentin are kissing beside him. They are two moving shadows in the dim moonlight.

It’s surreal and maybe just a dream. But whatever.

Eliot reaches for Margo, hungry for a touch. She kisses him and he feels her smiling against his mouth. He’s surprised when she pulls Quentin, who has been watching them with his mouth slightly open, looking slightly lost, closer and lets him take her place. Quentin barely hesitates. He kisses Eliot and it’s a bit sloppy, but still pleasurable. The fact that it’s Quentin kissing him, drowns out everything else, every left bit of sadness and regret and fucking guilt. Eliot kisses him back like Quentin is air he needs to be able to breathe.

Everything happens very quick from there.

Skin on skin, warmth spreading everywhere, Quentin’s body is smooth and hot, Eliot reaches for him, pulls at hair and claws at his back. Quentin pulls at his pants impatiently, exposing him to the chill air in the room. He stares and Eliot feels stupidly self-conscious for a moment. Quentin touches his cock with his fingers, feather lightly and Eliot hisses, arching into the touch. Quentin licks his lips. He wraps his fingers around Eliot’s cock and strokes once, firmly.

Margo is around and between them, touching them both, but she always keeps a bit of a distance, and vaguely, Eliot asks himself if she maybe does this on purpose, but when Quentin takes his cock into his mouth he stops thinking at all. Margo kisses his neck and watches as Quentin’s head moves up and down, her eyes sparkling.

Eliot comes embarrassingly fast. He spills into Quentin’s mouth, who swallows. But when he backs away, a thin line of cum runs from his mouth down to his chin. He wipes it away with his hand. He looks gorgeous. His hair dishevelled, his skin glowing in sweat, eyes burning.

Eliot is still panting, when Margo straddles Quentin and rides his cock. Eliot watches them, not quite sure suddenly, if this is real or just a very realistic sex dream. He feels feverish and the world sways around him, but the picture of Margo and Quentin’s moving bodies is clear. Sharp contours. He can hear them moaning and he can hear the sounds of skin slapping together. Margo cries out when she comes and Quentin groans, thrusting up at her a few times more before stilling, closing his eyes.

They part and Margo lays beside Eliot, stroking his chest with a fingertip. Quentin cleans up sloppily, coming to lay on the bed with them, kissing Eliot’s neck somehow shyly.

It’s not a dream. It’s really not.

Quentin and Margo lay beside him and the room is filled with the smell of alcohol and sex.

Eliot falls asleep listening to their combined breaths, musing that maybe, just maybe, life isn’t as useless as it seemed to be yesterday.

But the night ends and in the morning, reality hits in.

Alice stares at them, her face unreadable.

Quentin murmurs her name, his eyes filling with horror.

But she turns and walks away.

Quentin jumps out of bed, running after her.

“Shit,” Margo murmurs. She doesn’t sound sorry.

They can hear the slap when Alice backhands Quentin in the hallway. Loud and sharp in the morning silence.

Margo looks at Eliot, biting her lip. Eliot shrugs and gets up reluctantly. He needs to use the bathroom.

When he comes back into the room, Margo is gone and Quentin is collecting his clothes. He moves slowly, like he’s tired. He doesn’t look happy. He looks, like he thinks this was a big mistake. It shouldn’t hurt Eliot, but it does. Yes. Yes, it was hazy and weird and they were drunk, but still … Eliot laid his soul into this.

Eventually, their eyes meet for a moment. Quentin stops his movements. He’s chewing on his lip, stroking his hair back with a nervous gesture. And maybe he’s waiting. Is waiting for Eliot to say something. Anything. But Eliot doesn’t know how.

And the silence is deafening.

Quentin grabs the rest of his clothes and leaves. It looks like an escape.

Whenever Eliot’s around Quentin now, the air feels tense. It’s even worse, when Alice is around. Margo calls them stupid and keeps saying it was just sex. But that’s it. That’s the point. It wasn’t just sex. Not really. Quentin touched Eliot and Eliot touched Quentin. And it made something inside Eliot sing.

He’s almost grateful for the mess with Fillory and The Beast. There’s a distraction. No one has to notice he’s almost falling apart. No one has to ask questions.

When they’re in Fillory, and the knife decides to mark Eliot as High King – _High_ King. He would have laughed hysterically if he wasn’t absolutely stunned. – he realizes he has a chance to turn the pages of his book yet again.

It’s like he has an excuse now. An excuse to not return to earth, where alcohol and drugs wait for him in his room to drown the sorrow and guilt out. An excuse to avoid Quentin and sullen Alice and worried Margo. He can stay here in Fillory, being a fucking king. He still can’t believe it’s him. It feels like a joke. He also can’t believe he marries the daughter of a knifemaker. She’s nice. She deserves better. 

When Eliot tells them he’ll stay, Quentin bites his lip and looks sad. But he also seems relieved.

Eliot stays.

It’s not running away.

It’s not.

He’s just taking one for the team. He has to. He's just doing what's the best for everyone.

_ 5\. “That’s not me and that’s definitely not you. Not when we have a choice.” _

  
The quest changes things.

The quest wants them to show the beauty of all life.

The quest forces them to spend days alone with each other. Days, months, years – a life time.

And Eliot discovers something frightening, exciting, alarming, marvellous: He’s so in love with Q it hurts and he never wants to let him go again.

So yes, after the first weeks of disbelief, frustration and confusion – he embraces the idea of spending a decade, in a little hut in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by a magical forest, together with Quentin.

It isn’t easy at first. They both grow irritated over the mosaic. They set together tiles but nothing happens. Quentin has a raging fit once. He throws some tiles around, yelling at nothing and everything. At the multiverse and Fillory and fucking magic. Eliot watches him sink down and cry and bites his lip. He misses Margo. He also misses the numbing effect of alcohol. But it is what it is. They can’t give up now. They have to do this. He tells Quentin, who nods and sniffs and goes back to working on the tiles.

Life goes on.

They spend the days together, setting the tiles together, finding a village where they can get bread, fruits and vegetables. Eliot cooks for them and Quentin washes their clothes in the silver river near their hut. They wash themselves under the little waterfall they eventually find on a walk. Eliot catches some of Quentin’s careful side glances and he throws some at Quentin as well, still feeling drawn towards him. He knows all too well what Quentin’s doing when he leaves Eliot alone with the tiles and disappears into the hut. It’s the same Eliot’s doing when he finds a moment for himself. The mere thought of Quentin touching his cock sends shivers up and down Eliot’s spine and he feels himself hardening.

There’s a strange tension between them. The night they didn’t talk about still lingers in both their minds. The night that was sweet and hot and passionate, but somewhat of a mistake. Sometimes Eliot lays awake on the bed and thinks about it, about what he feels and he asks himself if Quentin is still awake on the couch he chose as his sleeping place, thinking too.

Life goes on.

Suddenly it’s their anniversary and they’re sitting outside on the colourful tiles, laughing a bit. It gets chilly outside in the evenings. Fireflies are dancing around them. Quentin kisses him. It’s quick and volatile, and he backs away immediately, as if he fears rejection. Eliot is surprised. But he kisses Quentin back. He does it soft and yet firm. He tries to lay his soul and heart into it.

When they part, Quentin swallows and scratches his chin. “Um, so Yeah.”

He sounds like he wants to say sorry. And Eliot couldn’t stand that. Not now. Not when he longs for Quentin day and night, knowing he’s just over there, reachable and yet so distant. So he says, “Let's just save our overthinking for the puzzle, yeah?”

And Quentin looks relieved. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah …” He swallows. And suddenly, it’s like he lost every little bit of hesitance. He reaches for Eliot like he is lost on an ocean and Eliot is his life raft. When he presses his lips on Eliot’s this time, it’s hungry and hot and passionate. It’s possessive and Eliot sinks into it relieved and grateful and so very aroused.

He ends up naked laying on his stomach, eyes closed as he bathes in the sensations.

Quentin hovers over his spread-out body, pressing kisses on his skin, from one shoulder to the other one, down his back, over his spine. Eliot’s toes curl into the bedsheets. He sighs in pleasure. He feels Quentin’s cock hard and hot against his leg. His own is just as hard and God, he wants Quentin so much, it almost hurts. The longing is sweet painful pressure and he can’t wait. He turns around and reaches for Quentin, pressing him close, drinking his surprised moan as their erections slide against each other. They kiss, slowly first, as if they’re testing the waters, but soon it gets passionate, a wild dance that leaves them both breathless.

Quentin looks at him, his lips slightly parted. His pupils are blown and there’s sweat glistening on his forehead. He’s breathing hard and Eliot realizes Quentin is desperately turned on because of him. He’s the one who does this to Q, he’s the one he wants right now. The knowledge is piercing pleasure and his stomach clenches.

Despite everything, fear is still lingering in the background. The fear of losing everything, of messing things up. But right now, he wants to live. He wants to feel wanted. And he wants to give back what he feels, because Quentin is special. Tonight, he wants connection.

“What … how much … I …” Quentin eventually pants, at loss for words.

“You in me? If you want to.” Please want. Please …

Quentin goes from looking incredibly turned on to hesitant back to painfully aroused. “Yeah. I … Okay. I can do that.”

And magic exists, it tingles in the air around them. Eliot does a lubrication spell because he’s impatient. He’s eager and he’s never been so glad he knows so much sex magic. He goes on his hands and knees without thinking, driven by habit. But Quentin reaches out and touches his shoulder. “Not like this,” he whispers huskily. “I, um, I want to see your face. Please?”

Eliot looks at him over his shoulder, surprised. His heart flutters when he sees the expression on Quentin’s face. It’s careful and intense at the same time. His eyes are fire in the night.

Eliot turns and lays on his back, watching as Quentin’s gaze wanders over his naked body. It lingers on his cock, and Quentin licks his lips once. The sight makes Eliot shiver in arousal again.

Quentin touches him, slides his warm hands across Eliot’s sides, his breath getting even heavier. He does that, until Eliot arches his back, getting impatient. Quentin seems to get the message. He pushes one finger in first, his breath faltering. Eliot sighs and watches Quentin’s face, watches how his brows furrow a bit in concentration, how he bites his lip and how his eyes reflect Eliot’s arousal. Quentin looks from where his fingers are moving up to Eliot’s face, searching, checking if he’s doing it right. And Eliot smiles at him, smiles reassuringly and lovingly. Sweet, kind, gentle Quentin smiles back. He pulls out his fingers and wraps them around his cock instead, hissing at the friction. Quentin moves, shifting and lining his cock up. He looks up one last time, locking eyes with Eliot. There’s a question in Quentin’s gaze and Eliot nods. Quentin exhales shakily. He slides into Eliot slowly, and they both groan.

Quentin throws his head back, closing his eyes for a moment, an expression of pure bliss on his face. Eliot wraps his arms around Quentin, feeling the muscles moving under hot sweaty skin. Quentin gasps into his neck, tingling the skin there. “Move,” Eliot begs him. And Quentin does. He pulls almost all the way out and thrust back in deep and it’s good, so so good.

Eliot moans and holds on to Quentin, closing his eyes. He’s vulnerable, laid bare, and it’s alright. It’s alright to give up control right now. To let his wards down. He’s safe and sound in Quentin’s arms. Quentin is inside and outside, he’s everywhere.

The sex is gentle. Gentle like Quentin who moves thoughtfully, memorizing the best angles and keeping his lips on Eliot’s throat, seeking connection.

Eliot’s had a lot of sex in his life – good, bad, drunk, drugged, kinky, boring sex - but he thinks in a sudden rush of disbelieving wonder that nothing compares to this and it’s the first time he would call what they’re doing love-making. Quentin makes love to him and it’s so good and pure, it drives tears into Eliot’s eyes.

_And maybe_, he thinks vaguely. _Maybe this isn’t even real. Maybe we will wake up one day, remembering nothing of it._ _But I will have lived this moment and it matters._

Quentin stares down at him, his eyes filled with the usual combination of uncertainty and confidence, mixed with starstrucked awe. “You’re so beautiful,” he says and Eliot’s breath falters. He feels like crying. It’s clear as day now. This man loves him. Quentin loves him and they are alone in a magical land, alone together. He muses for a vague moment, if it’s selfish to be glad that he has Quentin for his own. But every thought disappears from his mind, when Quentin’s hand wraps around his cock, stroking it in rhythm with his thrusts.

Eliot throws his head back, arching his neck. Quentin bends over to kiss him there again, his lips building another connection between their already intertwined bodies. His thrusts get erratic, his hips stuttering as he chases his release. “I … I’m close. Are you close?” He asks, sounding strained.

Eliot can’t talk. He just nods and moans.

Quentin picks up the pace, his hand moving just right, perfect pressure.

Eliot wishes this wouldn’t have to end. He wishes they could stay like this, wrapped around each other, as close as they can get. Because it’s not just fucking. It’s love, love, love.

But way too soon he balances on the edge, feeling it pooling in his stomach, his toes curling and his spine tingling. He gasps and gives up, letting go. His back arches and he spills over Quentin’s hand and sobs with the intensity of it, his whole body trembling.

Quentin shudders and groans. His eyes flutter closed as he rides the waves of final pleasure, thrusting a few more times, before stilling, his head hanging low and his shoulders heaving.

Silence around them, only interrupted by their heavy breaths.

“Wow,” Quentin breathes after a while, his face still flushed a perfect strawberry red. “That was …”

“Hmmm, spectacular?” Eliot suggests, drawing circles on Quentin’s heaving back lazily.

“Yeah. That,” Quentin sighs.

They chuckle and smile at each other.

Eliot likes this. He likes that they can smile and laugh and that it isn’t the most serious thing in the world. It’s just them.

Quentin stays inside him, propped up on his elbows, sweat dripping on Eliot’s skin, until his cock grows soft and slips out. He looks down and grimaces. “Made quite a mess. Sorry.”

“Honey. Magic,” Eliot reminds him.

“Oh. Yeah. Forgot that again,” Quentin murmurs. He frowns hard as he tries to memorize the spell, and he looks adorable. Eliot laughs and performs the spell that is one of the easiest in his extensive sex magic collection. Quentin smiles at him and sinks on the ground beside Eliot. “Thanks …”

Eliot just hums. He closes his eyes, feeling like he could fall asleep any moment. Tired, happy, blissed out. Quentin’s fingers brush against his and Eliot takes his hand, squeezing lightly.

“So …” Quentin says after a while. “Was it … Did I …”

That’s so Q. “It was wonderful, love. Best sex I had.”

“What? Really? No. I mean … Really?” He sounds so shocked and surprised.

Eliot smiles. “Yes. Really.” But he doesn’t tell Quentin why it was the best sex. He probably should. But not now. Serious talks can wait …

For who knows how long, they lay beside each other, holding hands, their chests heaving, their breaths only slowly calming down. Tiles and quest and real-world problems forgotten.

There are so many stars. And as Eliot stares at the countless sparkling freckles lighting up the dark sky above him, he starts to understand. This right here, what he’s sharing with Quentin, this is the beauty of all life.

And he has never been so happy.

He looks from their intertwined hands to Quentin’s face which is still. He seems to have dozed off. His mouth is slightly open, his breaths are even. Eliot smiles and looks back up to the sky. Yes. He is happy.

After this night, Quentin joins Eliot in bed.

  
Life goes on.

  
They continue working on the mosaic, going to the village, washing themselves under the waterfall. But now they’re also making love to each other regularly. They learn to know each other’s bodies, needs and reactions so well, map out every freckle, every little scar and sensitive zone. They laugh and play and discover each other’s kinks. Quentin likes to have his hair pulled while sucking cock. He also likes to be ordered around a bit, being the submissive one. But he also likes to be the one on top, occasionally. He has to be in the mood though. Eliot shows Quentin the pleasures of role playing and light BDSM, the thrill of being denied pleasure for a little while followed by the immense relieve of being allowed to touch, and so much more. They have time. The mosaic won’t be solved overnight. They have accepted this truth by now.

One day, a young woman arrives, selling peaches and plums. She becomes a regular visitor, and Eliot notices how Quentin is looking at her. How he marvels at her. He doesn’t mind. Not at all. She’s smart and beautiful. When Eliot tells Quentin to ask her out, Quentin looks at him shocked. “Wait. You … Wouldn’t you be jealous?” “Oh Quentin. How often do I have to tell you I’m open to poly relationships? You like her. She likes you. And I won’t be mad. She can only make our life here better.” It’s true what he says, but he doesn’t tell Quentin he’s indeed feeling a tiny bit jealous, when he sees them kissing for the first time. It’s the slight fear, Quentin might replace him. But when Quentin comes to bed this night, kissing Eliot with purpose, he thinks he doesn’t need to be afraid. And he’s right.

They have a few wonderful years together. Arielle gives birth to a boy. Quentin calls him Ted, after his father. They are a strange little family and sometimes, abruptly, Eliot marvels at how happy he is. He still misses Margo. It’s like someone cut an important piece of him off. He hopes she’s okay. He hopes she will be okay. He won’t know. Because by now, he has accepted, that this is their life now. They won’t go back anytime soon. Maybe never. And it’s ok.

But despite all the magic and happiness around them, tragedies still happen.

When Arielle gets horribly sick and passes away in the middle of a night, Quentin is devastated. Depression hits him with full force. Sometimes he doesn’t even manage to crawl out of bed in the morning. He stays in it, staring at the wall and biting at his nails. He’s crying a lot on those days, soaking the pillows. Eliot does his best to take care of him and of Ted, and the mosaic is left undone. It’s hard sometimes. Quentin once knocks a plate full of vegetables right out of Eliot’s hands when Eliot begs him, orders him, to finally eat something. He starts crying when he watches Eliot cleaning up and apologizes a thousand times. But Eliot hugs him close and just holds him while he’s crying his eyes dry.

  
Life goes on.  
  
  
It gets better. Quentin gets better. They start to live like this, the three of them. Eliot likes to spend time with little Ted. In the beginning, he was kind of afraid, he would fuck this up. He uses to fuck a lot of things up and his dad was an asshole, so how should he know how to raise a child? But Quentin tells him to not worry. “Just be yourself,” he says. So Eliot does that. And when Ted starts to call him Daddy, he feels his heart swell with love. He has a family now. He sometimes wishes he could tell and show Margo …

  
Life goes on.

Teddy grows up and leaves. He finds a wife and has children. They come to visit and their bright laughter lighten up the forest around the hut.

The mosaic is still unsolved. It stays that way. But Eliot and Quentin continue working. It’s still their quest, after all. The animals and the humans of the forest tell the legend of it to each other.

They get old. Quentin grows a ridiculously long beard Eliot makes fun of. Quentin throws a pillow at him and they laugh, then kiss. This is how most of their love-making starts these days. Soon, the aches start. Quentin gets it in his knees, Eliot in his hands and feet. They still work on the tiles sometimes, so much more slowly than in the past. New beautiful patterns develop. But nothing ever happens.  
  
  
Life goes on.

One evening, Eliot sits in his chair and feels so very tired. He sees Quentin working on the mosaic on his knees which must be aching. Eliot smiles and feels the love for his man burning as strong as always in his heart. He’s happy. He lived a long good life with the man he loves.

It was worth it.

The exhaustion creeps in every cell of his body. It’s so hard to keep his eyes open. So he closes them. Just a little nap, he thinks. Just a little rest … Darkness reaches for him and he’s not afraid. He lets go.

  
Life stops.

Eternities later, Eliot bites into a peach, sweetness exploding on his tongue, and his senses are tingling in the strange familiarity of a déjà vu.

_Peaches and plums. _

He looks at Quentin, who’s staring at a crumpled letter in his hands, running a hand through his hair nervously.

_Peaches and plums. _

_Peaches and … _

Oh. _Oh._

It hits him with full force. Images flood his mind, overwhelming his senses. Quentin, kissing him under a starry night sky. Quentin, telling him he’s beautiful while running a hand through his curls and moving his hips, producing waves of pleasure. Quentin, telling him he’s a good dad. Quentin, laughing when Eliot shows him how to dance a proper waltz. Quentin … Where is this coming from? Did this really happen?

Eliot stares at the peach.

Quentin looks up at him and gasps. “You died,” he says, his voice choked.

“I did,” Eliot says, stunned. He remembers growing old. Remembers sitting on the porch with Quentin, talking about their life. So many memories … He remembers Quentin applying balm to his dry wrinkled shaking hands. Remembers Ted visiting. Ted, their … Oh. “And had a family,” he breathes. A family. A _son_. Their son.

They look at each other, eyes wide. They don’t understand why they remember. How. But they do. They spent a lifetime together. The beauty of all life. They built it with their _hearts._

When Quentin talks, he stumbles over his own words. “I know this sounds dumb but us. We - You know, think about it. Like, we … we work. And we know it 'cause we've lived it. Who gets that kind of proof of concept? I'm just saying, what if we gave it a shot? I mean, would that be that crazy? Why the fuck not?”

Eliot doesn’t understand at first. But when he looks at Quentin, really looks at him, it hits him with full force. Quentin looks … hopeful. He’s serious, Eliot realizes with shock. He’s serious about this.

But … It can’t be.

Good things always leave. He learned this the hard way. It’s better to not get attached. He’s going to fuck it up, like he always does. He can’t lose Quentin. That’s why he has to push him away. Maybe it worked in a magical world, when they were alone, only having each other as company. But … but it never would work here. Quentin already has a life here. He has the people he cares for and he has Alice. Alice, who cares so much about Q, who needs him, who … No. He can’t do this. He can’t hurt anyone else. He can’t hurt Quentin.

The words are his downfall but at the same time they are his shield.  
“Q, come on. I love you, but you have to know that that's not me and that's definitely not you, not when not when we have a choice.”

Quentin stares. He looks hurt. The pain in his eyes slowly shift to disappointment and confusion.

Eliot feels sorry. But it’s done. These words are irreversible.

“Okay,” Quentin breathes, looking aside, making his face disappear behind his hair. “I … Okay.”

Eliot swallows and looks at the peach in his hand. He was happy. He feels that it’s true. But that’s not this life. It was another. And it’s over. He literally died. He can’t have that back, can’t live it again. Not here. Not like this. It has been a fairy tail. Nothing more.

The life he could have led scares him.

So he runs from it.

_ \+ 1: I was afraid. And when I'm afraid, I run away. _

In the past Eliot has imagined a lot of ways he could die. Overdose, being run over by a car while stumbling drunk across a street or a spell gone wrong …

No scenario involved being possessed by a hostile childlike monster. And yet here he is, trapped in what Charlton calls his Happy Place. He paces the imaginary cottage and feels nothing but desperation. 

At least, he tells himself, he was able to show Quentin and the others that he isn’t dead. That he’s still in there. But now he’s trapped again, and he doesn’t know if he will ever get back. Back to Quentin.

The thought of never seeing him again hurts too much.

The journey through his memories has shown him, how much he messed up after the quest. It was a horrible mistake to run away. Maybe the worst mistake he has ever made. He has to tell Quentin. Has to tell him that he loves him. That he’s so much in love with him that it hurts. That yes, he wants to try. Wants to give it a shoot. Peaches and plums. Proof of concept. Goddamn.

Sometimes, when the desperation hits a horrible painful high, Eliot imagines a memory of Quentin. It’s from the pieces he remembers from their life at the mosaic. Quentin appears on the couch and smiles at Eliot, his eyes filled with love. The image both hurts and makes Eliot incredibly happy. They talk and laugh. Sometimes Eliot lays his head in this Quentin’s lap. Just to be close to him. But it makes him even more sad. Because he knows it isn’t real, it’s just wishful thinking. It’s stupid.

He makes Quentin disappear again and drowns himself in alcohol instead. At least, he can have as much as he wants here, he thinks bitterly. He’s just downing a full bottle of vodka, when he feels a strange pulling feeling in his stomach. Next comes a light that gets brighter and brighter. Something happens Eliot realizes, feeling a hint of fearful anticipation. Something …

Then he knows no more. 

* * *

  
  
After the monster leaves his body, Eliot opens his own eyes four times.

The first time he only sees a glimpse of blue sky and white clouds. He’s laying on his back and he feels like he’s being torn into pieces. The pain is sharp and cold. It takes his breath away. The wet smell of moss and old trees mingles with the iron taste of blood. Every breath he takes is pure agony and he wishes he could stop breathing at all.

The daylight blinds him and Eliot closes his eyes again. He groans and gasps. This is hell. Must be. God. He wants to go back. Wants to go back to his wine and his few good memories. At least, there has been no pain. And when he told Quentin, _I love you_, in the Happy Place, Quentin smiled at him and softly said _I know. love you too_.

It may have not been real. But when have real things ever been good?

Eliot drowns in pain and frowns, when a voice is calling out his name. Loud. Frantic.

Eliot. El. Eliot!

_Margo? _

God Margo. He has missed her so much. If she’s here … He has to see her. But his eyelids are too heavy. He can’t lift them. He’s so tired …

Margo won’t let him sleep. “If there's a tunnel with Grandma, tell her to piss off and come back to me, you selfish fuck! Get back here! Eliot. Eliot, _please_.”

Eliot sighs and fights through the exhaustion, finally able to open his eyes at least halfway. He sees Margo and oh, how he missed her … She’s right there, beside him, staring down at him wide-eyed. There are tears on her face.

“Well,” he whispers, his throat burning. “When you put it so sweetly, Bambi, hmm?”

She gasps and smiles, reaching out to touch his cheek with trembling fingers.

And Eliot wishes he could tell her everything’s going to be alright, but he coughs up blood and everything hurts, and he feels like he might be dying.

He blinks up at Margo’s face and gasps, when Quentin’s face appears beside hers. His beautiful, sad, horrified face. Eliot wants to kiss the tear away, that makes its slow way over Quentin’s cheek. He wants to … There were words. He knows the words. “Q,” he whispers. “Q …”

Quentin shakes his head. “Hey. Don’t … Just … Don’t try to talk. Just stay awake. We’re going to get you through this. We …”

_I love you_, Eliot wants to say. But he doesn’t manage more than a weak “Q. I … I …” Before he feels the darkness reaching for him, pulling him back.

Nothing.

* * *

  
The second time he opens his eyes, he’s moving without moving. Above him white neon lights, blinding him. He still has the taste of blood in his mouth. The pain is an ocean and he’s drowning in it.

He can hear Margo’s voice like from a far distance. “Do something!” She sounds so scared.

Someone else answers something. Words mingle with each other. Margo’s voice fades, and he wants her back.

Suddenly he stops moving and hands reach for him. He’s floating in the air for a moment, before being laid on something soft … A bed. He coughs again, grimacing at the fresh taste of blood on his lips. Blood … Yellow and red. The schoolbus. Why does he remember this now? He whimpers involuntarily. Someone wipes the blood from his mouth with something soft, maybe a tissue. Someone tells him, “It’s going to be alright.”

Eliot thinks the voice might belong to Lipson, but he’s not sure. Everything’s blurry.

He feels the sharp sting of a needle and reality slips away again.

* * *

The third time Eliot opens his own eyes, he feels like he’s laying wrapped in cotton. He hears a faint steady beeping and feels pressure on his stomach. The pain is still there, but it’s more distant. A throbbing in his whole body. He’s relieved when he doesn’t taste blood in his mouth.

He blinks up at a white ceiling, when a face appears, hovering over him.

It’s Doctor Lipson. “Welcome back,” she says with the tiniest hint of a smile on her fierce face. She looks exhausted. “I thought we were losing you, but there you are. You’re really as tough as old boots, Mr. Waugh.”

He wants to laugh, but he can only manage a tiny choked noise in the back of his throat.

“You lost a ridiculous amount of blood,” Lipson tells him, taking his pulse. “Which isn’t surprising, considering an axe hit you in the stomach.”

What?

“You need rest more than anything now,” she says, her voice already getting blurry. Eliot feels the darkness creeping back in, and he has no strength to fight it. He falls back asleep, thinking of Quentin. Q. Where …

Nothing.

* * *

The fourth time Eliot’s eyes flutter open, he looks right at Quentin and his heart seems to jump a loop in his chest.

Q is sitting on an uncomfortable plastic chair in the corner, his head tipped back against the wall, his arms crossed over his shoulder. It looks like he’s hugging himself. His hair is so short. It looks strange. But it allows Eliot an unhindered glance at Quentin’s face. There are some scratches on it. Thin red lines on pasty skin. Quentin’s right arm is wrapped in bandages. He looks battered but very much alive. They’re both alive, Eliot realizes with a sudden jolt of emotions. A combination of fear and relief.

_I missed you_, he thinks.

He told his memory of Quentin, in his happy place. Over and over again, while he tried to prepare himself. For the end or for worse.

_I missed you so much. _

He wants to tell this real Quentin too. But all that comes out of his mouth is a choked noise.

Quentin flinches and Eliot watches, as his eyes open slowly, wandering through the room for a moment, before focusing on Eliot. They widen and Quentin gasps. “Eliot? God. You … You are awake.” He gets up from the chair, swaying on the spot for a moment. He really looks terribly exhausted.

Quentin sits on the edge of Eliot’s bed. “Lipson said you shouldn’t try to talk just now. Or move. Just … rest, okay?” He smiles. But it’s a weak smile. And there’s something in it, Eliot doesn’t like. It’s … fear? Is Quentin scared? After the first hint of confusion comes the understanding. Oh. Of course. For the last weeks, a monster has used his body. A monster which has killed people and … and hurt Q. The monster has made Eliot see it, after he got through the door. Eliot supposed it was a punishment for his disobeying.

A sharp pain that has nothing to do with his wound pierces his heart. Quentin sees the monster when he looks at Eliot. Every time he sees Eliot’s face, he has to remember what the monster did.

When Quentin continues talking, he doesn’t look at Eliot’s face. Instead, he stares at his own hands and it hurts. “The monster and his sister are gone. We … Alice, Penny 23 and I, we took care of them. It was a close call. But Penny got us out in time. I’m going to tell you everything in detail, as soon as you’re feeling better, alright?”

Eliot just closes his eyes. He feels worn out. Desperate. Terrified of the future.

Quentin is breathing beside him.

Sleep comes quick.

* * *

Recovery is a bitch.

Lipson can’t do anything to make the wound heal faster because of the axe’s magic. After almost a week, the wound is still a mess. It’s oozing. The skin around it is red and feverish.

Eliot isn’t allowed anything and can almost do nothing with his body. He can’t walk, he can’t sit up by his own, he can’t solid food, he can’t drink alcohol, he can barely speak without starting to cough. It’s frustrating. He hates everything. And almost everyone.

Margo is around him the most, helping him. He can accept her help best, because she is, well, Margo. She is his other half and God, he has missed her so much. He tells her, when she’s changing his bandages and she laughs. “I missed you too, asshole.” Then, she bites her lip and looks at the wound she has just revealed. “I’m sorry,” she says, much softer.

Eliot shakes his head. “Don’t … You had to.”

“I hit you in the stomach with a fucking axe, El. I … I almost killed you. I …” She stops, her eyes welling up. She wipes at them angrily.

“Hey,” Eliot whispers. “Come here.” He opens his arms for her slowly and she carefully sinks into the embrace, pressing her face against his neck for a moment. She breathes and sighs for a while, and goes back to work.

* * *

Quentin visits often too, but he is careful around Eliot. 

Once, he sits on his chair and pulls out a little bottle, shaking out two pills and swallowing them dry.

“You’re taking your meds again,” Eliot says, propped up on a few pillows.

“Yeah. Uh. Got some pretty nasty depressive episodes lately,” Quentin tells him, running a hand through his hair. “And, uh, some panic attacks. I’m seeing a therapist again. She’s a magician … That’s making things easier.”

Eliot nods. “Q … I’m sorry.”

Quentin looks at him surprised. “What for?”

“The things I did, I …”

“Eliot. That wasn’t you.”

“My hands were around your neck, Q.”

“Used by a monster possessing you. Listen. I … Nothing of this is your fault. And I care for you, Eliot. A lot. I just … I need a bit time. Because the monster, what it said and did, it’s haunting me, Eliot. But … When I’m better. And when you are better, I … Well, we’re still, uh, best friends, alright? We will always be. That.”

That. Always.

Eliot feels like he might drown in the pain that rushes through him.

Best friends. Always.

The room sways. Eliot closes his eyes and groans. He feels sick all of a sudden.

Quentin looks at him and frowns. “Eliot?”

Eliot turns his head, bends over the edge of the bed and vomits on the floor.

Quentin runs to call for help.

  
Friends. Best friends. Always.

  
Well. Fuck.

* * *

  
After what feels like an eternity, Eliot is finally allowed to leave the infirmary and move back into the cottage. He feels so much more home, when Margo and Penny 23 support him on the way to the couch. He drops on it, breathing heavily. “Finally,” he sighs and stretches his legs. He looks around and smiles. Finally, he’s back at the real cottage.

“Glad you’re back. But I’m not giving you any alcohol,” Margo tells him, crossing her arms.

Eliot hums and leans back against the cushions, laying a hand on his slightly throbbing stomach.

Margo watches him with a strange expression on her face.

“Bambi,” he says. “I’m alright, I …”

But she shakes her head. “What’s going on between you and Q?” She asks and Eliot freezes. Shit …

“Nothing.”

“Don’t bullshit me. Whenever he’s around, you look like you’re going to cry and he’s not looking at you and …”

“Well. A monster used my body to hurt him, Bambi, I …”

“What’s this really about, El?” She interrupts him softly. “Why don’t you just tell me?” She looks a little hurt now, and he sighs.

“The quest,” he mumbles.

Margo frowns. “The one where you and Quentin had to show the beauty of all life with tiles? The one where you apparently led a life in that forest and you died in the end?”

“Yes.”

“What about it?”

“We didn’t only work on the mosaic, Margo. We … Quentin and I, we led our life as a family. Quentin was married to a woman named Arielle at some point. She had a child. When she died we cared for it together and … we had a lot of sex and, well, there were a lot of _I love yous_, and ...”

“Wait,” Margo says, looking shocked. “Are you telling me that you two were playing fathers and son, that you ... Oh God. Shit. Eliot!”

“Yes,” he says bitterly. “And he told me after it, that we could try to be together, and I told him no, that’s not us and …”

“You did what?!”

He fully expected what Margo is throwing at him now, her eyes full of disbelieving anger. “That boy, our Q, he wants to be with you and you say no? Eliot, why do you want to be sad so desperately?”

“I don’t know …”

“Well, go and talk to him! Say you’re sorry or shit like that and then fucking tell him you want him!”

Eliot grimaces. “It’s over, Margo. He doesn’t want me anymore. Not now, when seeing my face gives him a panic attack.”

Margo groans. “Oh Eliot. Please just talk to him. You’re two are such idiots. Only two nights ago, I heard Quentin say your name in his dreams and he didn’t sound scared.”

“You’re serious?”

“I am. And if you don’t do something, I’m going to smash your stupid mouths together.”

Eliot sighs and looks at his hands. “I … Okay. I’ll try.”

Margo glares at him. “Good.”

* * *

Quentin sits outside in the grass, looking at the starry night sky.

When Eliot walks towards him slowly, supporting himself on his cane, he turns his head and his eyes widen a bit.

“May I?” Eliot asks.

“Sure,” Quentin murmurs.

Eliot sits beside him carefully, gritting his teeth at the pull in his stomach. He lays his cane aside and looks up at the sky as well. The moment reminds him of the night at the mosaic and his heart flutters.

He notices that Quentin is looking at him and meets his gaze. Their eyes lock and Quentin swallows. Maybe he remembers too …

“So … Are we better yet?” Eliot asks, raising his eyebrows.

Quentin chuckles. “I think so. At least I’m feeling more like myself than I have for quite a while.”

“Great. And I don’t feel like I might break in two anymore.”

“Hmm. Does it still hurt?” Quentin asks, glancing at Eliot’s stomach.

“All the time. Reminding me how quick life could be over,” Eliot says seriously.

Quentin nods and hums, running a hand through his hair.

Eliot takes a deep breath. “Q. Listen. I … I’m thinking a lot about the quest lately. You know which one.”

Quentin frowns and gulps. His eyes flicker from Eliot’s face to his own hands which are playing with each other now, restlessly, and back. “Okay,” he murmurs.

“Do you remember how we were sitting on the mosaic at our anniversary? How we looked up at the sky and how we … how we kissed?”

“I do,” Quentin says quietly. It sounds strained.

Eliot smiles. It’s almost like he can feel Quentin’s lips on his again. “I liked that. Really liked that.” He chuckles. “Proof of concept?”

“Yeah. Proof of concept.” Quentin says, but he looks away, the echo of hurt filling his eyes.

Eliot feels hesitant for a moment, but he tells himself to get his shit together. He’s done running away. He’s done destroying his own chances for happiness. He’s done feeling regret every single day. He's done.

The man he loves and who loves him back, his one chance of true love, is sitting right in front of him. It’s time to make this right. For once in his life.

“Quentin … I have to tell you something.”

“Okay,” Quentin says, looking confused but also curious.

“When you told me, we could, you know, give it a shoot. Be together, I … I made a mistake,” Eliot says. Quentin’s eyes widen. He watches Eliot, biting his lip. Eliot sighs. He looks aside. Avoids Q’s eyes and looks at his hands instead. “I made a mistake and I don’t know if you can forgive me. If you even want to. But … I was thinking about this all the time when I was trapped inside my mind, and I realized, I can’t do this anymore. I have to tell you the truth. Q … I’m sorry. I fucked up. I was afraid. And when I’m afraid … I run away. And, well, the truth is, I … I’m in love with you. I’m so in love with you, it kills me every day. I want to be with you, I want to worship you, protect you and laugh with you. I … This is all I want and I understand if you don’t want to. But … I had to say this. I had to. I’m sorry.”

He looks back to Quentin, who stares at him, his lips slightly parted. He expects a lot. Angry words, Quentin leaving without a single word … But instead, Quentin’s eyes well up and he exhales a sob. “Are you … Is this … God. Are you serious?”

“I am,” Eliot says quietly.

Quentin exhales shakily and then he reaches for Eliot, presses him into a gentle hug, his hands running over his back. Eliot gasps and presses his face into the crook of Quentin’s neck, inhaling his familiar scent. God. It feels so good to touch Q. He missed him so much.

“I love you, you idiot,” Quentin murmurs into his ear, his voice stifled from tears. “I love you. I … I want to be with you too. All the time. I … Peaches and plums, Eliot.” He laughs.

Eliot smiles into Quentin’s skin. “Yes. Peaches and plums. I’m so glad we’re here, Quentin. I’m so glad we’re here, together and alive. I … I want to be your world, will you let me?”

And Quentin whispers, “Yes.”

  
Yes.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a native speaker and always grateful for being corrected! I'm constantly trying to improve my English, so please don't hesitate to tell me about mistakes. <3  
You can also tell me if you're missing a certain tag/trigger warning, I'll add it. 
> 
> Visit me on tumblr: [ready-to-kick-some-ass](https://ready-to-kick-some-ass.tumblr.com/) :)


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